


one hand on the trigger and one on the cross (jesus and her family are two things she’s lost)

by mirrorfade



Series: the reaper grins [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Cannibalism, Circle Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorfade/pseuds/mirrorfade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two warriors talk about sisters, death, and lyrium smuggling. Hawke and the Knight-Commander have a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one hand on the trigger and one on the cross (jesus and her family are two things she’s lost)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Jamie N. Common’s The Preacher. TW for discussions of pedophilia and cannibalism.

“I heard,” the Champion says, “that you lost your sister. Isn’t that just _tragic_.”

Meredith, Knight-Commander and highest authority in Kirkwall besides Her Grace Elthina, does not smile. She stands at her desk, hands folded calmly behind her back and not at all close to her sword. “It was the Maker’s will that it end like that.”

Blonde hair in the dirt and a farm burned by a demon’s fire. Oh there are reasons, a hundred thousand excuses of love and foolishness, but it did not need to _happen_. Magic must serve man and not rule over him, apostates must be caged and watched _for the good of all_ , and Meredith’s family should have done their duty in the beginning. But that is all in the past, and her sister has been dead more than thirty years. 

You let these things go, after awhile. It’s better this way. You get _perspective_.

“Huh,” the Champion says, popping the cork out of a wine bottle. She’s pacing around Meredith’s office, running her hands carelessly over the walls as if her gauntlets aren’t scarring the surface. None of her entourage – none of the _mages_ – are present. “I’ve heard that. Your chantry priests say it all the time, but only when it suits them. Isn’t that funny?”

Meredith narrows her eyes. “I’m not in the habit of finding the teachings of our Maker _funny_.”

Hawke chuckles, taking a long drink of wine. “Want some, Commander? You’re looking tense. Take a seat. _Reeeelax_. We’ll come to understand each other. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

What Meredith wants, what she has always wanted, is a peaceful and ordered city. Everything in its place and content to _stay_ there. She has prayed to the Maker every night for guidance, only to be greeted with Hawke’s sneering face yet again at every dawn. She wants Hawke to support the templars, to do her duty to the Maker and the Chantry and stop all the foolishness, but that will not come. Practical to the end, Meredith will settle instead for Hawke’s quick and natural death. Something unrelated to the templars. Preferably something painful. 

Not that Meredith will ever say so aloud, oh no. One must keep certain appearances.   
Meredith inclines her head, but does not sit. She already knows that Hawke will not join her. With this, she prefers to look her enemy straight on. “Champion.”

Hawke spins on her heel, bottle clasped loosely in her hands. She’s smiling all of a sudden, but not with teeth. “Want a drink, Knight-Commander? It’s not dragon blood, I _promise_. I heard your templars whispering about it in the Rose. Where they get such ideas, I do not know.”

It’s meant to goad her, Meredith knows. She will not let it. Templars have certain needs, as do all men, and those must be sated lest it lead to further weakness. Meredith avoids the Rose. She has no need of flesh, and greater concerns than the earthly distractions. After all, someone must always stand strong at the Gallows gates. Strong and clear-headed. 

As for the dragon blood, well. Everyone with a mind knows what company Hawke keeps. She was corrupted a long time ago. 

“The men talk,” Meredith says, neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

“They do that,” Hawke agrees. She sets the bottle on Meredith’s desk, and slides it a touch closer with a clawed gauntlet. “May I tell you a story, Knight-Commander?”

Meredith takes the bottle like the challenge it is, and drinks. The wine doesn’t burn as much as she expects, those there’s a salty undertone that she doesn’t like. Something like iron, like the taste of blood in your mouth. Probably the mess of dark herbs stuck at the bottom of the glass. “By all means.”

“There was a rich man once, rich in character and gold, who said the Maker had blessed him.” Hawke smiles at that, though not too wide. She rarely shows her teeth to Meredith. Whatever the gesture means, it never feels like respect. “Of course he was right. He lived well. And everyone knows that one’s station is determined by the Maker.”

“I’d think it was one’s character,” Meredith says, a tad cooler. 

Hawke shrugs and takes the bottle back, tapping her gauntlets against the rim. “Isn’t that also the Maker’s doing? But I’m getting ahead of myself. This good, pious man – _loved_ by the Maker – had a son. Not a very good son, you understand. He was weak of spirit, tempted by all sorts of ills – you know the sort, don’t you? And at first the man thought his son was besieged by demons and the evil of magic, and so he took his son to the chantry and then to the Circle looking for aid.”

“To cure his apostate son?” Meredith asks, impatiently. She’s getting tired of Hawke’s winding speeches and wicked eyes. This is a story she’s heard a hundred times before. It ends with a Tranquil mage and the good father praying for redemption. How sad, how tragic. How _predictable._ Another piece of propaganda twisting its way into Kirkwall to undermine the Maker’s good work. 

Hawke laughs at that, ever so softly. She lifts the bottle to Meredith in salute, but doesn’t drink just yet. “Oh, but his son had no magic. He just wanted to do nasty things to little girls. Nothing a lyrium brand would cure, you understand. But the man had hope! The Maker answered his prayers!”

“How?”

“Because, my dear Knight-Commander, this pious man’s son didn’t want _human_ girls. Only elven.” Hawke takes a single sip, wine turning her mouth red as she smiles. “And there are _so many_ of them running around, why, no one would notice if a few died….oh, did I forget that part? He killed them, in the end. But the Maker forgave the son, because he was _sorry_.”

Something tightens in Meredith’s back, a twinge of muscle readying for a fight, and the lingering memory of a scandal from years past. Dead girls, poor and elven, and a magistrate’s son…

Not just a story then, she realizes. People look at Hawke and see the wild eyes and teeth filed into points, the destructive will of a demon, but beneath all that – or just resting alongside it – is the mind of a damn politician. 

“Is that so?” Meredith asks, careful to keep her voice reasonable. People like Hawke will always try to push her into a temper, but they will never succeed. 

Hawke smiles almost indulgently. “Like one forgives a templar who rapes a mage. After all, it was her wicked seduction that drove him to it. One must forgive a pious man – mustn’t we, Commander?”

“Is there an accusation that I should know about?” Meredith asks. She keeps her voice calm and steady, as she always must when speaking with Hawke. There are a thousand ways to lose one’s temper, and Hawke knows all the tricks to pull her into it. 

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Hawke says, clapping her hands together. “I’m just telling you a story. Do you want to know how it ends?”

Meredith feels her eye start to twitch, and puts a hand over it. “Please continue, Champion. You know I value our time together.”

Hawke picks up the bottle and shakes it for a moment, sighing before she sets it aside again. “It’s so hard to find good wine in Kirkwall. Everything is so _bland_. I add my own spices, you see.”

“How…economic,” Meredith says, careful to hide her distaste. 

“We all do what we must, as the Maker commands.” Hawke pushes the wine bottle a little closer to Meredith. “Won’t you drink? Won’t you drink to the glory of the His will?”

“For the glory of our Maker,” Meredith agrees, and drinks. She can see the dark mass of herbs at the bottom of the bottle, some poor man’s flavoring, and forces herself not to choke at the texture. 

“Bless your manners,” Hawke says cheerfully, and takes the bottle back. “Now, as you can imagine, some ungrateful soul finally killed that motherfucker dead and that pious man – beloved of the Maker – well, he found his home burned to the ground and all his well-earned gold—”

“Is that a _confession_?” Meredith demands. 

Hawke has the nerve to look shocked. “Oh no, Knight-Commander. It’s just a story about the Maker and His will. Shall I finish?”

“I thought you already had.”

“Not quite yet.” Hawke sits on the edge of Meredith’s desk, dragging her gauntlets through paperwork and shredding it thoroughly, destroying hours of work in a single gesture. “The ungrateful soul who took the man’s son from him intruded one more time. You see, the pious man found himself needing the Maker’s charity just to eat. And that ungrateful soul who murdered the good man’s son left him a gift. Just a small one, you understand. But something that would linger. One night the pious man found himself begging for charity in the Chantry square. But it was a cold night, and the only food he could find was some dark meat given to him by the same ungrateful soul who killed his son, barely cooked. It bled onto his hands when he ate it, and oh it was bitter – it was _sour_ on the inside, Knight-Commander. But you know how people are when they’re hungry. He didn’t mind so much.”

“And the ungrateful soul?” Meredith asks, because she’s become invested now, she needs to now how this ends. 

Hawke shrugs, a gesture meant to look careless. “The ungrateful soul fed the pious man a heart, Knight-Commander, of a murdering bastard who deserved to die. And he was so hungry he thanked the Maker when he was done.”

It takes a moment for Meredith to think of something to say to that. “I’d not heard that story before,” she says finally. 

“Haven’t you? That’s a shame. I learned something from it.”

“What?”

Hawke stands, shaking the bottle of wine. “That people should be made to eat their failings. It reminds me of that time all those templars died after taking sour lyrium. They got it from smugglers, you see. A sin in the Maker’s eye. It’s only fitting they should suffer for it.”

There have been no lyrium deaths in the Gallows for years. Meredith narrows her eyes. “What have you done?”

“Oh, Knight-Commander, you shouldn’t worry yourself,” Hawke continues, popping the cork back into the wine bottle. “I’m sure _your_ templars have never done anything so foolish. Please don’t worry yourself, you’ll stress your heart. On the grave of your sister, I wouldn’t want _that_.”

Death and sisters and men fed their sins. How disgusting. How clever. 

Meredith steps back from her desk, hands clasped behind her back just as before. “The death of a sister changes a person.”

“It would,” Hawke agrees. “As does the dust of thieves and murdering fools. Which I put in the wine, by the way. I hope you enjoyed the taste of your templars, Knight-Commander, as they so enjoyed dying.”

She sets the bottle down on Meredith’s desk. This time, Hawke smiles with her teeth, all of them sharpened into delicate little points. A demon’s maw, dripping with wine and the blood of templars. “But my sister isn’t going to die, is she, Knight-Commander?”

_Nothing touches her, or your men will die._

Ha. Haaaaaaa. How utterly predictable. 

Meredith does not laugh. She has left that piece of her behind, resting in front of the graves of her family and the sister that should have been made Tranquil at birth instead of purged by fire and the sharp edge of a farming spike. She was the first life Meredith took in the service of the Maker. It was not the last. 

“I have your mines,” Hawke continues happily. “And – are you listening? – I’d really enjoy what comes next, if you push it. I’d like that, Knight-Commander. I’d enjoy watching you eat your dead. So try all you want to kill me, love, but don’t look at my sister. Or you’ll find out which of us the Maker really loves.”

Hawke pauses. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was me? Wouldn’t it be funny if He loved me and hated you?”

_Blasphemy_. Meredith holds her tongue, though. There is a time and place for everything, including the deaths of certain mages. Hawke smiles and Meredith just meets her eyes, steel for steel, and does not waver. “Who are we to challenge the Maker’s will?”

“Who are _you_?” Hawke corrects, as if she’s truly favored by the one who stands above them all. “But I digress. I enjoy our talks, Knight-Commander. Keep the wine. It’s a gift. I made it for you all by myself.”

Meredith doesn’t look at the bottle, and the little bag of herbs and bone dust floating at the bottom. She can’t help but wonder who died to give it that flavor. Someone she knows, no doubt. Their sacrifice will not be in vain. “Good day, Champion. I’ll see you again soon.”

“Very soon,” Hawke agrees. “Don’t die before then, Meredith. I’d hate to miss it.”


End file.
